Mi Casa
by A. E. Stover
Summary: [AU] Not once has anybody spelled Mikasa's name right at Starbucks. Then again, she can't really get mad at them. She doesn't even know if it's her real name, after all. [TW FOR LATER CHAPTERS: GORE; BODY HORROR]
1. Mi casa es tu casa

_**MI CASA**_  
written by **A. E. Stover**  
this version is **not edited**

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WOW another drabble for SNK I am on a roll WOWw

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It's her birthday, so she orders a grande strawberry crème frap with java chips and a mocha drizzle and dares to snatch the packaged madelines. Who cares how fake these are (besides Eren) — they were soft and sweet and good enough for her.

The guy ringing up her order smiles and asks for her name.

"Mikasa."

The grin that appears on his face makes her want to sigh. "Ooh," he croons like a fool, quickly writing on a new cup. "Like _'mi casa es tu casa,'_ huh?" He passes the cup along and swipes her gold card for her stars. "We can make that come true if you want. My shift's over in a few." He's leaning over as he returns her card and winks at her.

She stares blankly at him as she takes the card back. Then she turns to the side to wait for her drink amongst the crowd of strangers. A hand comes down on her shoulder, and it makes her skin crawl. She has to remind herself that breaking fingers is not socially acceptable behavior.

"Hey, c'mon, how about it? I can promise you a great time. I'll treat you out to dinner, if you want. I know a real nice spot just around the corner from my place. D'you like Mexican? You do, don't you?"

She walks forward and feels his hand slip off her shoulder. But his voice still buzzes like a mosquito around her.

"Or do you wanna hit closer to home? Chinese? Japanese? Thai?"

She ignores him and approaches the tall man leaning against the counter and furiously scrolling through his phone. She gently touches his elbow and he looks over his shoulder at her. Jean's black frames slip down his nose and he pushed them back up. The glasses hardly hide the dark circles under his eyes; he's in desperate need of sleep and hasn't shaved in what seems like two days now. His hair is messy and out of control and he needs a shower. She smiles at him despite herself.

He turns abruptly to his phone. "Not now, Mikasa. I'm busy."

Her hand returns to her side and she presses the red scarf to her mouth.

"Wow, what a dickbag. Is he your boyfriend?"

The mosquito has returned. Mikasa has a fly swatter in her pocket. She has to remind herself that other people call it a knife. That means she isn't free to use it in a public setting.

"You can do better, c'mon," the mosquito buzzes. "I'll treat you right, like how you want to be treated. I'd never choose a phone over a gorgeous babe like yo—"

Jean's fist reaches over to grab the mosquito before she can. His eyes glint under his dirty hair and through the lenses of his glasses, and he presses his face as close to the mosquito as humanely possible. "Listen here, you little shit," he growls. "My sister's about to give birth any moment now and I need to know precisely when the fuck this is happening. So you need to shut that gaping hole in your face and keep your little cock in your pants or my girl here will snap your head in half with her fist." There's a little chime as a new text flashes on his phone, and Jean shoves the mosquito away and taps furiously on the screen.

Mikasa sees a cup full of thick pink cream being placed onto the counter.

"Mi casa es tu casa?" the girl setting the drink down calls out. "Grande strawberry crème frap with a mocha drizzle and java chips?"

Mikasa blinks and turns to the mosquito who, for some reason, is still hovering by her. She narrows her eyes at him and watches him quickly scurry away. It's satisfying to see him slink off. She takes the drink, squinting distastefully down at the play on her name.

"I told you to use your last name," Jean says absentmindedly as he pulls on her arm. "C'mon, I need to get back. The contractions are getting closer together — I think it'll happen today. Fuck, it better be. I can't take another day of this shit."

Mikasa lets herself be dragged, gripping her drink firmly in one hand and the packaged madelines in the other. She drops her face into her scarf and coughs.

That makes Jean drop her arm immediately. "Are you contagious? Is bronchitis contagious? Shit, I can't get my nephew sick on his first day of _life,_ my sister'll fucking _murder_ me."

"Bronchitis?" They are greeted by Marco as soon as they step out of the store. "Mikasa, you have bronchitis and you're drinking a frap? Jean, you'll get her even more sick."

Mikasa had promised not to talk unless it was absolutely necessary, so she settles for giving Marco a warning glare.

Marco is immune. Or, rather, he's distracted. He's giving one of his glares at Jean. It looks more like a disappointed frown than a glare, but it works wonders on Jean.

Not today, though.

Jean looks like he wants to slap the two of them. "It's her birthday!" he shouts, and his phone suddenly chimes. He looks down at it and the color drains from his face. "Oh my god, it's happening," he whispers in a shaking voice, clutching the phone in his hand. He lurches forward and grabs Marco by the shoulders. "Marco! Drive me to the hospital!"

Marco just wrinkles his nose. "I'm driving you home is what I'm doing," he says, prying one of Jean's hands off his body. "When was the last time you showered?"

Jean's eyes widen. "Marco! Annie's giving birth _right now._ You have to take me to the hospital!"

"I don't really have to do anything, Jean."

"_Marco!"_

Mikasa quickly types something on her phone and shoves it in Jean's face. Marco cranes his head around to read too.

_[They won't let you in if you smell like horse ass.]_

She pulls back her phone to continue.

_[Go take a shower. I'll tell Annie why you're running late.]_

"Well, that's settled," Marco cheers, taking a firm hold on Jean's wrist. The smile he wears spreads tightly across his face and promises no escape. "Tell Annie I'll be bringing Jean within the hour."

Mikasa nods and promptly turns on her heel. She listens to the fading echo of Jean struggling against Marco. Jean hadn't gotten any sleep in the past two days, so it was going to be difficult to reason with him. Marco might need help. Mikasa considers texting Eren about it as she takes a sip of her frozen drink.

Then she remembers Marco's mother henning and drops any feelings of pity she had. She takes an aggressive slurp of her drink and pockets her phone away.

Strawberry crème fills her mouth and slides pleasantly down her throat.

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	2. Let's survive

_**MI CASA**_  
written by **A. E. Stover**  
this version is **not edited**

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No, this is not a coffeeshop AU.

Sorry, not sorry.

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"You said you're feeling well, is that correct?"

Mikasa nods her head.

The doctor gives her a dubious look.

She knows she doesn't look very convincing. She's paler than usual, and the red scarf wrapped around her neck and half her face doesn't persuade the good doctor anymore than her scratchy voice asking to see Annie did. Part of her is glad the man is actually doing his job. The other half is annoyed.

The doctor sighs. He lifts his clipboard and slides his glasses down from atop his balding head. "Who are you here for, again?"

Speak only when necessary, Eren had told her. This _is_ necessary. But she knows her voice is hoarse. There's also an itch in the back of her throat that she wants to clear out. She's afraid opening her mouth will let it out, triggering the doctor into banning her from the hospital for the next week or so. So she suffers. She clamps her mouth shut and suffers.

The doctor's sharp eyes stare down at her. He's probably judging the pallor of her skin and assessing the croaky voice she'd used before.

The doctor opens his mouth to speak.

"Ada, you're here," a gentle voice politely intercedes. "I'm sorry, Dr. Anderson. Ada doesn't speak English fluently, so she's a little nervous."

It's Bertholdt, who's smiling quietly down at her from behind the good doctor. Mikasa doesn't really know him very well, but she decides in that moment that she likes him.

The doctor seems to trust Bertholdt with unwavering faith. Suspicion melts off his face like lingering spring snow. He gives the young man a smile, then turns the smile towards her. "Oh, I see. Ada, was it? I apologize, Ada. If you'd like, you can follow Mr. Stromoski to visit your friend."

Ada. The name sounds familiar in her ears. Mikasa realizes that's her — Ada, _I'm _Ada — and she follows Bertholdt, who is now supposed to be called "Mr. Stromoski." The doctor scribbles something on his clipboard and walks away.

Mikasa is being led down a quiet corridor, hearing snippets of care and laughter from the rooms she passes by, and finally comes to a stop at one of the doors. Bertholdt enters the room first, holding the door open for her. She walks in.

Light streams from the wide windows on the wall opposite her. Annie is sitting on the bed in front of the view. Exhaustion is evident on Annie's face and her hair hangs messily in her eyes. Annie is tying it back with a black band while Connie hugs the squirming infant to his chest.

"Connie just got here, too," Bertholdt explains. "He was held up by train traffic. I hope your commute wasn't troublesome."

Mikasa shakes her head and Bertholdt just walks to take a seat beside Annie.

"I... I'm an uncle," Connie announces when he sees Mikasa. His eyes are bright and wide, and he turns to look back down at the infant in his arms. "Mikasa, look! I'm an uncle!"

Mikasa feels a pang of _something_ in her heart, but she doesn't know what. She smiles instead.

Annie leans back to sit against the pillows. "Jean?" Her inquiry is like a sigh, almost missed, but it catches in Mikasa's ears.

Mikasa pulls out her phone. She taps on the screen for a moment before holding it out for Annie to read.

_[He's a mess. He'll come soon.]_

Annie is amused; a barely-there cough of a laugh tumbles from her mouth, and a knowing glimmer reaches her eyes.

"What's keeping him?" Connie scowls, rocking the infant back and forth. "He's always late, that jerk." He holds the child in front of him and grins. "Sorry that your uncle Jean's a loser. But at least you've got the greatest uncle and aunt in me and Sasha!"

"You proposed?" Bertholdt asks, sounding surprised.

Connie's grin turns sheepish. "Ah. Not yet. But I will! Soon!" The baby whimpers in her uncle's arms.

"You're still young," reassures Annie, who takes back her child. The whimpering ceases once Annie holds her baby close to her chest. She smiles down at her new son's face. Beside her, Bertholdt tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and stays close to hold her hand.

The subtle intimacy doesn't register comfortably, and Mikasa looks away. Realization slowly dawns upon her, breaking the awkward barrier that has suddenly taken form. This is the most Mikasa has seen Annie smiling, and the most of Bertholdt she's ever seen (and heard). This is also the closest she's come to see Connie crying — and, she realizes with a sudden skip of her heart — this is the closest she's ever been to a baby.

Her fingers twitch at her sides as an urge begins to take root. She wants to pinch it out before it sprouts, but it is too late. The urge blooms into desire, and manifests in her thoughts .

_I want to see the baby._

She wants to see what it looks like, if it carries her father's placid face and her mother's vibrant eyes. She wants to know if it has Jean's fussiness and Connie's passion. She wants to know what its first word will be, and what it will grab at its erabitori. She wants to know everything. Who will be his first friend? What will he like to eat? Will he cry at his first day of school? Who will be his first love?

Will he _live?_

Her fingers twitch at her sides again, and she clasps her phone tightly in both hands.

"Would you like to see him?"

It is Bertholdt who asks. Annie looks on with a neutral gaze, but Mikasa sees the change in Annie's hands on her child — she's preparing to hold her son out.

Mikasa stares at the mysterious bundle that is _alive_ in Annie's arms. It breathes and eats and makes noise and defecates. It knows to fight for safety with soft whimpers, flailing arms, and ear-piercing cries. It knows it must fight to live.

"Just support his head," Connie says, jumping around the bed to get to Mikasa who has all but frozen to the floor. "I'll show you!"

Mikasa shakes her head. "I'm sick," she says, and she hears the hoarseness in her voice that is stuck deep in her throat. She lifts her scarf to her nose again and takes a step back. "It's not good for the baby."

Connie is already holding the child, but pauses and looks over his shoulder at his sister and brother-in-law. Annie and Bertholdt share a quick glance.

"We are stronger than you are," Annie says quietly, and she's nudging Connie forward.

Maybe they are, maybe they're not. She's never seen Eren sick, and she's watched the many times Eren's healed after his more difficult jobs. She remembers the crackling of bones and the stitching of muscle. She remembers the hot, steaming flesh hissing noisily as open wounds closed and whole limbs regenerated. Eren is strong. Strong enough to survive, in ways Mikasa knows she can not.

Connie is still looking at her steadily. Mikasa knows he won't move until she does, so she takes a step forward.

And then, Connie is pressing the baby in her arms, chatting excitedly about how to hold him — "You put your hand _here,_ and hold the little guy _there_ with _that_ hand..." — and, in the blink of an eye, she finds herself standing in a cramped hospital room with three pairs of eyes watching her, two with patience and one with bubbling enthusiasm, as she holds a tiny form wrapped in soft cloth in her arms.

The baby is warm and heavy, the weight awkward in her arms, and she focuses on keeping her hands in the exact position Connie has showed her. The baby squirms. Her hands and arms don't move, but her heart does. Her heart shakes at the sight of the red-faced baby, its small grey eyes squinting as if it were scanning her. Its pudgy arms reach out toward her, and she instinctively pulls away. She remembers she shouldn't do that — then the pose is off — so she reshapes her arms the way Connie had molded them and lets the baby reach out with its flailing limbs. One squishy hand comes to bumps against her scarf while the other stretches far back. Its squinting eyes are suddenly joined by tight, pursed lips, and the baby starts to whimper.

Her heart pounds erratically in her chest. "What do I do?" she asks, looking at Annie, at Connie, at Bertholdt.

"Rock him, like this!" Connie insists with an elated grin as he mimes the motion with air. Bertholdt at least has the decency to look on with patient understanding and apology, and Annie lifts the corner of her lips in a visible smirk.

Footsteps clonk noisily in the hallway outside their room, coming suddenly to a thundering halt. Mikasa hears the door being torn open before a familiar shout — _"Annie!"_

Annie's face is wiped clean of her amused smirk. "Jean, you're in the maternity ward." Her invisible frown is audible in her tone.

Jean mutters apologies and rushes forward to stand beside Mikasa. "Is that— Is that him?" he asks breathlessly, staring down at the squirming newborn with an unfamiliar light in his wide eyes. He doesn't seem to pay attention to Mikasa; he only has eyes for the child in her arms. "Can I hold him?" he asks in a hushed whisper, still watching the child.

Bertholdt and Annie respond in unison. "Of course." "Don't be an idiot."

Jean scoops the baby from her without warning, and cradles the infant close to his chest. "Oh, he's beautiful, Annie," he says softly, his voice wavering at the end. He pats the back of his nephew's head gently and rocks him. "His eyes are grey — I think they'll be blue. Oh my god, he's beautiful, look at him...!"

"Are you — Are you _crying_?" Connie asks. "You _are_, you big baby, aren't you? _Ha!"_

"Sh-Shut up! I'm experiencing the delicate cycle of life, you balding little shi—"

"_Jean."_

"Sorry, Annie."

Mikasa watches as Jean protectively cradles the child to his chest until it finally has enough and cries for its mother. Jean returns the baby but remains at his sister's side, kneeling on the ground and watching as the child squints at his older uncle with his cheek pressed firmly to his mother's breast. Connie stands beside, pulling faces and making ridiculous noises and lights up when he is rewarded with a gurgling giggle.

Mikasa feels something warm fitting into the curve of her palm, and looks down to see that her arms are still curled in the position Connie had showed her, long after the baby was taken from her.

There is also a cup of tea being pressed against her right hand.

"It's tea. For you." Marco is standing beside her. "I'm not very good with kids, either," he says in what she thinks is supposed to be a consoling tone. He laughs lightly and looks sheepish. "I don't really know what to do with them."

She takes the offered cup and slowly peels the lid off. The smell of hot, paper pulp hits her at the same time that burnt green tea leaves and jasmine petals do. Mikasa wrinkles her nose. "This is not tea," she says with a revolted stare she knows Levi would be proud of.

Marco laughs again. "Sorry. It was the only thing I could find."

Mikasa gives Marco a sidelong glance before relenting. "For you, it's acceptable." She doesn't take a sip though.

They stand forgotten in a corner of the hospital room. The not-tea warms her hands quickly, but unlike how the squirming child did. The baby warmed her hands, her arms, her chest. It was a slow warmth that built up — from deep within herself. Remembering that warmth has her earlier sprout of a desire spreading rapidly in her mind, tearing out old roots to make room for the new, and before she can stop it, another thought blooms.

"I want kids one day."

It was Marco that spoke, but the words startled her in a way she didn't expect.

Marco sighed. "I talked with Jean about it a few times before. He's good with kids, you know? But me... Not so much. Not that I don't like kids. I do. I just... don't know how to take care of anybody." Marco takes a sip of his not-tea; Mikasa can smell the not-black tea from where she stands.

"You take good care of Jean."

Marco laughs again. "Thank you."

Mikasa looks down at her cup of not-tea. She blows lightly across the surface, and takes a small slip. The acidic taste clings woefully on her tongue. For Marco's sake, she does not cringe.

"What about you? Do you want kids?"

Marco asks her something she hoped he wouldn't. But the words are out and an answer is needed. Mikasa takes another sip, forcing the scalding liquid into her mouth as she mocks a pensive look.

The thought of having a child — of possessing the authority of raising a living human — numbs her. She doesn't deny the deep warmth Annie's son had lit inside her heart; rather, she embraces it. But that warmth also brings a numbing sensation that wracks her soul as quick as lightening and as lasting as a fire-hot burn.

She is afraid.

But she doesn't say it. Instead, she swallows the horrible taste in her mouth and lies.

"No. I don't like children."

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	3. Shepherd your fears away

_**MI CASA  
**_written by** A. E. Stover  
**this version is **not edited**

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I... I'm a teacher. I hold the fate of 90 children in my hands.

Fuck.

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Her bronchitis turns worse the next day.

She spends the rest of the week fighting for her health, hacking and coughing phlegm out of her lungs while quarantined to her room. Levi's long since refused to step anywhere near the second floor, so Eren's the one who comes by with real food ("Canned soup won't help her get better!" "It's worked for me.") while Armin makes sure she's medicated. Jean sends her photos of his brand new nephew every three hours and even Marco stops by with a care package of tea and biscuits.

Mikasa stubbornly refuses to take any of it.

Levi breaks quarantine to shove the tea and biscuits down her throat three days later, upon Eren's whining insistence.

She gets better. She suffers, but she still gets better.

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She's plagued with dreams on her fourth night.

Wild grass billows out before her like an old, frayed carpet. The dried green blades stretch across the horizon and create a thin, flat line in the world far beyond. There is no sky; just a pitch black void that greedily swallows the light.

A flock of sheep graze in the dried grass. They trample the fields and bray pitifully — _"mi casa es tu casa, mi casa es tu casa."_

What stupid animals they are, she thinks as she watches them. The only kind that mindlessly stands as it is killed; the only animal that does not fight when its throat is cut open.

_"Mi casa es tu casa,"_ they bray, and they graze the fields down to the dusty earth. The fields lay barren in no time at all, and the sheep bleat and dig their hooves into the ground. _"Mi casa es tu casa, mi casa es tu casa…"_ They stomp into the ground, clouds of dust coloring the air around them in a dark haze, their movements heavy and frantic and strange.

The earth quakes at the pounding of hooves. The haze lifts up high, hiding the sheep behind a screen of dry brown dirt so all Mikasa can see are moving globs of tangled, white wool. The thudding increases, becomes deeper and heavier and begins to sound like the ominous shifting and grating of tectonic plates. Suddenly, the earth splits open, and black spiders swam out from underneath the earth's crust.

"Black widows can kill you," she hears the voice of her father say, "Stay away from them."

The spiders pour everywhere but around her, their jittery movements quick and unnatural. They paint the barren earth with their hairy bodies, drowning everything in their existence so everything turns black. The sheep still move, scampering around in circles as the spiders encroach upon them, scaling over their thin, knobby knees, and crawl into their thick white wool. The spiders come from everywhere, digging out their own tunnels from beneath the earth and head all in one direction — away from her and toward the sheep.

"Stay away from them," she hears one more time. The voice is lost to the frantic bleating of the sheep.

_"Mi casa es tu casa, mi casa es tu casa..."_ The sheep can't find peace; they are invaded and forcefully gathered together in one place. They begin to pound away at the ground, splattering spiders and shaking them off their wool but not noticing how the earth cracks and splits open all around them to make way for waves and waves of new spiders.

The new wave come upon the sheep like a surging storm; they skitter over the others and head right toward the bleating sheep. They crawl into their wool and dance on their faces, their legs poking red holes into their skin. They reach the sheep's eyes…

The air is tinny with the sheep's cries, a frantic bleating that turns quickly into shrieking; _"Mi casa, mi casa, mi casa, mi casa—"_ The spiders plague the sheep; crooked, thin legs stab away at reddening wool and faces — _**squish, squish, squish**_; she hears them as they dig into the sheep's bodies like knives.

More spiders climb up the sheep. They enter the open wounds and crawl beneath the sheep's flesh; Mikasa can track their movements, watching bulging forms move aggressively over the sheep's faces and legs and bodies like tumors as blood waters the dry, thirsty ground. The sheep shriek like screaming infants; _"Mi casa, mi casa, mi casa, mi casa—"_ White wool turns red and heavy with their blood, flattens into their bodies from the weight and sinks into them. Their faces collapse, as if their skull has melted, and their eyes burst and pop like water balloons hitting cement. Red streams down their empty sockets, and a grey-pink liquid pours from their nostrils. The spiders continue their frantic scurrying; the sheep's shrieking cries falter and shake and fade as glistening bone begins to poke out from their clotted wool.

Soon, all that is left are clumps of bloodied wool and gleaming bone, pooled together on ground sodden with blood.

Suddenly, all goes still. Not one spider twitches its leg. Everything has frozen in the silence, and then—

The spiders rush toward her.

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She jolts awake, eyes snapping open just as her phone flashes furiously in silence on her nightstand. She can't move; she's cocooned in a heavy duvet that has been vigorously tucked into her sides and pulled all the way up to her nose. She feels drenched, and hopes that its sweat and nothing more.

She kicks off the covers and the stench of her own body odor hits her nostrils as cold winter air plunges ice into her veins and shocks her awake. She can feel just how much she has sweated in the night; the wire of her bra digs wetly into clammy skin as does the waistband of her panties. The fabric of her shirt at her pits feel like chilled washcloths while her back remains burning and moist. Dizziness overcomes her, buzzing distantly behind her forehead and present just enough to make her wonder briefly which way is left and which way is up and where are her legs are right now and whether she can stand to shift to her side, just a little bit, to take the pressure off her back. She feels horrible, as if someone had just been pressing the pillow her head was resting on over her face until she passed out.

But she can breathe through both nostrils again. And each breath she took didn't rattle her lungs.

She decides she has to get up. She kicks the covers all the way off, until it's bunched thickly on the floor, and slowly pushes herself up. She sits at the side of her bed for a while, feeling the shock of ice hitting her back and staring at the heavy duvet on the floor and watches as it transforms into the shape of shorn wool, complete with white, tangled woolen strands that slowly begin to turn pink and then red and—

She stands up and throws her pillows off her bed. She grabs the bedding and pulls all that off too, hurling it to the floor where her duvet still is, and moves down to the end of her mattress to yank it out. She pulls until a good five inches of the mattress has slid over the bedframe before she grips the edge and lifts it up. She sets the mattress on its side against the wall so it can air out, and crosses her room to quicken the airing-out process by opening the window all the way.

She is chilled to the bone by the time she enters the bathroom, even though the trip takes only seven steps. She peels her clothes off and tosses everything into the hamper. She turns on the shower, shivers on the seat of her toilet until steam rolls past the curtain, and ducks under the hot stream of water. She lathers shampoo in her hands, scrapes her nails against her scalp and scrubs away at her skin with a coarse washcloth, the scene of coconut milk and jasmine petals filling the bathroom and doing nothing to soothe her out of drowning in images of sheep decomposing alive from the inside out.

She leaves the bathroom to enter the tundra that has formed in her room, puts on a new pair of panties and a new bra, digs into her dresser and takes out a wool sweater — she shoves it to the bottom of her drawer and searches for a cashmere sweater — and kicks the bedding on the floor on her way out of her room.

The soft darkness of the hall envelopes her. A yellow glow huddles against the wall in the distance, and Mikasa walks down the hallway towards it. The light comes from the kitchen; she descends the stairs and crosses the front entrance before she comes to the kitchen door. It's shut, but the light is strong and the familiar sound of metal clinking quietly tells her to enter.

She pushes it open.

Levi sits at the table with his back to her, cleaning and reassembling a shotgun in peace.

She remains where she is at the doorway, listening to the sound of metal sliding and fitting together. It's such a familiar scene that she hears a rhythm in his movements, and follows it all the way through like a song.

It reaches the end when the gun is set down on the table. A soft click of a lighter and the whisper of a flame becomes the end of a long piece, and Levi's slow, dragging inhale at a cigarette signals the start of a new melody.

"Tell that shitty horseface son of a bitch to stop sending pictures of a snot-nosed brat." Smoke billows around his head; she watches it circle around his head. He must have taken a long drag.

"He doesn't have your number."

"Thank God he doesn't. He has yours. I couldn't sleep because your phone kept going off like a closeted dumb fuck's vibrator. I had to step into diseased territory to shut it off."

"Did you tuck me in?"

"No, that was was sweet and thoughtful little Eren at three in the morning. Of course it was me. Why the fuck were you sleeping without a blanket in the dead of winter? No wonder you're diseased."

She leans into the doorframe. "I sweat a lot."

"Yeah, I had the great misfortune of finding that out hours ago. Are you feeling better?"

"I am."

"Good. You can thank me later."

It falls quiet. Levi sits at the table, smoking his cigarette. The doorframe is starting to dig into the skin of her shoulder, but she stays as she is and observes him quietly. He needs a haircut; he's grown out his hair so it hangs messily at his shoulders like Hanji's. He's kept his hair at this length for almost a month now, and Mikasa hasn't failed to comment on its length at least once a week. ("I don't have the time. And cut it out, it's creepy as hell. Do you have a hair fetish or something?" "I'll _cut_ it _out_ when you _cut_ it _off_.") She refrains from commenting on it now, though, because something is_…_ off. The sudden silence brought with it a foreboding weight as it fell. She can sense the unspoken apology in the air; it expertly weaves distraught into her heart like a bitter seamstress, jabbing the needle in and pulling out sharply but creating such fine needlework that she can hardly complain.

The chair Levi is sitting on scrapes against the kitchen floor, the sound like a knife in her ears. Levi stands at the table, shrugging on a jacket that magically appeared and tucks the shotgun inside before zipping it up. He kicks the chair in and continues standing, smoking his cigarette with one hand stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. A few minutes later, he stubs the end of his cigarette into the ashtray on the table.

He turns around to face her with stony eyes. His stoic expression falls flat upon seeing her, and she lets his eyes dip down her body before resting back on her face with irritation blazing in his eyes. He closes the distance between them with short, quick strides and glares up at her. "At least put some fucking pants on, shit for brains. Death by hacking up a lung is a pathetic death."

"Did you get a call?"

Levi stares at her like she's said something stupid, and she probably has. There's only one reason he would ever bother with going out at three in the morning. His hand comes up and he roughly pats the crown of her head. His hand is heavy and warm, and unsurprisingly comforting. The gesture is welcomed, but the troubled thoughts asking what it could mean shakes her unexpectedly hard.

She crushes down her jumbled emotions, just like he'd taught her too.

"I'll be back before morning," he only says. He lowers his had and turns around to exit the kitchen. She listens to the creaking of the front door as it opens and shuts after him, and the silence that falls back to the kitchen is deafening.

She stays rooted to the floor where she stands, the door frame digging painfully into her shoulder and the lingering smell of nicotine filling her head, and tries not to think about her dream.


	4. Freckled Jesus

_**MI CASA**_  
written by **A. E. Stover**  
this version is **not edited**

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**[04] freckled jesus**

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He gets back as the sun rises. The hinges of the front door creak as he opens it, and he makes a note to fix that when he has the time. He sheds his jacket and holds it over his shoulder while he toes his shoes off. He bends down to put them away on the shelf and catches his reflection as he straightens up.

His hair is longer than he thought it was. Mikasa's nagging picks its way up to the surface of his memories as he looks at himself in the mirror; he needs to get it cut soon. There are lines between his eyes that he thinks are wrinkles at first, but realizes that they aren't — not yet — because he's just frowning at himself.

He tries lifting the frown up and watches his brow smooth over as his eyebrows relax. His eyes are rounder, and and he thinks he looks the way he did ten years ago.

The frown returns instantaneously; he's been staring at himself for five minutes now — what is he doing? He drops his keys off at the shelf and puts his jacket away in the closet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a line of light glowing from underneath the kitchen door. He opens it quietly and stands by the doorway just as she'd done hours earlier.

She's hunched over the kitchen table with a quilt wrapped around her. He sees the slow, steady rise and fall of her shoulders and guesses she's asleep. A mug of half-drunken hot chocolate sits on a coaster near her; small splotches of dried hot chocolate decorate the counter.

He crosses the kitchen in an instant, grabs a cloth hanging on the oven handle, wets it with a stream of water from the sink, and scrubs it out. He tosses the cloth into the sink and turns to face his sleeping ward. He notices the smoothness of her forehead, the gentle parting of lips, and the soft curling of her hands on the table. She sleeps in peace, a stark contrast to how he'd seen her when he checked-in on her before he left.

Sunlight streams through the kitchen window and warms his back. The image of his ward sleeping peacefully before him warms his chest.

He takes a seat across from her and lets himself collapse on the table. His back and shoulders are aching, and so is his left ankle from when he'd twisted in while running that night. He sighs deeply, feels the exhaustion rise up to consume him; a stretch of paranoia remains despite being in the safety of his own home, because his home is never sweetly safe with what he does for a living.

A warm hand eases over one of his and he lets it; he feels the hand squeeze his carefully, feels it squeezing out his pathetic weariness, feels it squeeze out drops of his paranoia.

He falls asleep without feeling the need to pray.

.

.

Mikasa and Levi eat at a diner a little after one in the afternoon. Levi is scarfing down a plate of scrambled eggs and hash browns while Mikasa picks at her cobb salad. Mike Zacharius has joined them, sitting backwards on a chair and smoking quietly as his only customers eat his food. Mike taps away the ashes and lets them fall to the floor. Levi's dark eyes snap to the cigarette in Mike's hand each time the ashes are sprinkled off. Levi's eye twitches at the growing pile; his self-control is slipping. Mikasa is crunching on a crouton when Levi finally puts his foot down.

On Mike's.

The cigarette in Mike's hand almost falls and Mike stifles a pained groan. Mikasa spears a carrot and crunches on it next.

"Don't dirty the floor anymore than you already do by being here, you piece of shit."

"This is my diner."

"Which _I'm _eating in."

"Yes, you are." Mike says, face lighting up triumphantly. "Enjoying the shitty food?"

"Fuck you."

Mike reaches back to the table behind him and pulls out a few napkins. He tosses them on the floor and they land over the sprinkle of ashes.

"Better?"

"Are you fucking stupid?"

"You know, your hair's gotten really long lately. It smooths out your jaw and gives off this nice, womanly look. It's nice."

"So you _are _stupid."

"I'm _observant_. How long are you keeping it?"

"Until the next call."

"Running away?"

"From you, yes."

Mike takes a long drag on his cigarette. "Not really running if you're sitting in my diner." As he speaks, smoke spills past his lips and empties into the air between Mikasa and Levi. Mikasa's fork misses the cucumber in her salad. It's speared on her second try. Levi swipes Mike's cigarette away; he ignores the protest and dunks the stick into his untouched glass of tap water.

"Wow, you're in some funk today. Killed the wrong guy last night?"

"Pinning the blame on me, too?"

The grin on Mike's face wipes away immediately. "I didn't mean it like that."

Levi drops his fork on his plate. "I know. Sorry."

Beside him, Mikasa freezes for a second too long. Levi does not look at anyone; he just glares at his half-eaten plate of eggs and potatoes. There's not a jovial spark light in Mike's eyes, nor the usual irritated boredom on Levi's face. Something clenches Mikasa's heart in a tight, cold grip. The cucumber she's speared stays in her bowl.

Nothing else is eaten that day.

.

.

Mike seems to know, but he won't talk; she knows Levi is never an option, not when he gets like that. So she takes a 30-minute bus ride and climbs five flights up a narrow stairway of a dirty apartment in Chinatown. She passes four doors before she finds the one she wants. She's about to knock when something catches her eye.

The door is immaculately clean. There is a fresh coat of green on the old wooden door; she can still smell the paint if she concentrated hard enough, and the uneven swipes are clearly visible. What's also visible is a dark spot underneath the doorknob. A missed spot. A dark, missed spot. The door was white before, so there should be no dark missed spot. It's the color of hoisin sauce, which she knows is also like the color of—

She pounds furiously against the door. It feels cold and wet, and she doesn't have time to think if there's paint on her knuckles because the door is opening finally and she rushes forward and_—_

"Hi Mika— _Ow_, holy _fu—"_

She forces herself to a halt. She takes in the blond holding his hands to his grimacing face and feels guilt plunge deeply into her soul. "Armin! Armin, I'm so sorry — are you okay?"

Armin laughs weakly and manages a smile. "I think?" He pulls his hand away and pauses for a moment before sniffing a few times. "I'm not bleeding or anything, am I?"

She shakes her head. She clenches her hands at her sides, shoving her impatience away. "Sorry."

"It's fine," he says, waving away her guilt with a bright smile. "Were you looking for Eren? He went on a last-minute delivery a half-hour ago. Something about a kid's birthday…?"

"Oh." The hoisin sauce was hoisin sauce. Nothing more, nothing less.

Relief comes in the form of a deep sigh; She can feel her worry dissipate. Radiance shines off Armin's smiling face, and the cheer almost makes her forget why she came.

Almost.

Armin is smiling too widely, too sunnily, and too calmly.

She shoves her way through the door. Armin's protests die in her ears; she stomps across the carpeting to get to a tiny room off to the left of the apartment. When she enters, she wishes she had heeded Armin's pleads of stop! and wait a minute! Instead, shock has her frozen in the entryway of the small bedroom.

Eren is sitting up on an old futon when she enters. He stares at her open-mouthed, eyes widening like saucers upon seeing her. Hot vapors hiss from two meaty stubs where his arms once were. His chest and abdomen are swathed in thick bandages that need changing; the first-aid kit on the ground lay open in useless abandon. A roll of bandages peeks out from a large black bag on the ground; a doctor has been here, her mind informs her. Which one? she asks herself.

"Hi," Eren finally greets with a plastic smile. "I, uh. I'd wave, but, uh… Well." One of his stubs twitch; she sees the rippling of muscle through the thick steam that pours from Eren's flesh.

She doesn't say anything; she bites her lips shut and just kneels down. One of her hands hovers over him. The steam hits her with a hiss; the heat is invasive, pushing intensely through her pores in throbbing waves. When it's too much, she retracts her hand.

"It's okay," Eren blurts, and she zones in on the gravelly texture to his voice (that means his throat just finished regenerating — what else was missing?). "It's fine — I'm fine—"

The insistence in Eren's voice rings ominously in her ears. She doesn't fail to see the way Eren's face twists with pained hesitance; she doesn't forget about Mike's harrowed expression nor of Levi's self-imposed exile after their diner outing.

"It — It just _looks _bad, I swear. Nothing really happened— Well, a lot of stuff happened, actually, but… It doesn't matter! Everything's gonna be fine, he said so! So we'll just… We'll just have to… It's— It's fine. It's gonna be fine."

She pounds her fists against the floor. "Don't _lie _to me!"

"I'm _not! _We're—"

"_E_ren~" someone sing-songed a few steps away, "How're you recovering? Did you get your face back yet? Armin, could you forward your observation notes to Moblit, please? Thanks, sweetie! What about your arms, Eren? Are your arms back, yet?"

"Mikasa, no!"

Her back slams into the ground and her lungs push the air out of her in shock. She struggles against the dead weight on top of her; she sees bright sunshine and earthy soil, wiry limbs and steaming shoulders. She hears an animalistic growl rumbling from her throat and feels the weight of two bodies anchoring her to the ground.

"Ah, ha! Mikasa! How've you been? Still as feisty as ever, I see! That's good! Eren, I'll come back in a few. Make sure you forward those notes, Armin!"

The door shuts soundly after a moment, and the weight lifts only when the creaking of stairs has long gone.

Eren is off first, returning to the futon with suppressed groans and curses let out from pain. When he leaves, her legs are freed from their unnatural restraint, and legs fold in as if they are afraid Eren will return to sit on them again. She studies the way Eren moves; she sees how much damage he's taken from the way he struggles to just crawl back to the bedding and it makes her want to lock him in the apartment for good.

Armin is remains hanging above her. He's sitting on her stomach and peering intensely down at her with his hands pinning her wrists to the floor. She stares up at him and wonders when he got so heavy and... strong. But that's not important right now. She glances to the side.

"Eren."

She hears Eren grunt his response as he tries to re-arrange the blankets of his futon with his teeth and legs. The fabric rustles too much; he's struggling to move it. Above her, Armin is still staring at her. He is absolutely still; his face is like a wall. When she continues, this time, she doesn't look away.

"Who did Levi kill last night?"

The rustling stops. A flicker of something flashes over the wall that is Armin's face.

The rustling begins again. "Levi didn't kill anybody," Eren answers stiffly. Armin still stares at her, but she feels his hands starting to shake.

"Someone was killed last night—"

Eren exploded. "It's our _job! _That's what _happens! _And it's nobody's fault when it does! We do our best to avoid it, but sometimes we just _can't_,okay? So stop saying it's Levi's fault—"

"I didn't."

The silence that follows is long and unbearable. Armin lets go of her and slides to the ground. His trembling hands come up to his face. Armin's shoulders begin to shake, and he starts to fold in on himself.

She doesn't know what to do.

In a moment, Eren calls out to him, sheets still between his teeth. "A-Armin…?"

There's a high, keening noise sounding in Armin's voice that makes her heart quake and Eren drop the blankets. Eren shuffles forward on his knees, his stubs twitching pathetically at his shoulders. He nearly slips with the speed he's scrambling across the floor, but manages to land his face in the crook of Armin's neck just in time.

"Armin," Eren whispers quietly, pushing up and pressing his face close to Armin's ear. "Armin, hey. It's… It's okay."

"N-_No!"_ Armin sobs out frantically. "It's _not _okay!" His hands are shaking at they try to wipe away his tears and his words break with each sob. "It's _my _fa—fault! I-I… I mis_cal_—_cal_culated!"

"It's not your fault; the data was wrong—"

"I should have known!" Armin takes in a gulp of air between sobs. "I should have known," he repeats. "That's my _job!_ I— I couldn't… I couldn't figure it out, and… And now you're — And _Marco's_ just— I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I couldn't—"

"No, no, no, no, no — Armin. Armin, _listen _to me. Don't— ...It's _not_ your fault. It's… It's gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be okay. So, please... don't cry, okay?"

She watches from the side as Eren tries to no avail to calm Armin down. Eren's voice is quiet and soothing, but Mikasa can hear the way it wavers each time he speaks. Eren puts his face next to Armin's, places his lips near Armin's ear and neck as he speaks, wipes tears away from Armin's cheeks with his own, and tries to do what he can despite his physical limitations.

When she sees the tearful shine in Eren's eyes, she shuffles over to them at last, heart pounding in her chest because she doesn't know what to do. In a distant memory, she sees her mother reaching out to take her face in her hands and speak softly to her. She mimes that, because she remembers feeling safe and loved and calm. So she reaches out to place both of her hands on either side of Armin's face.

"Armin," she calls out to him quietly.

He sniffs wetly and his lips quiver. His blue eyes are dull; she remembers how they shined and wants to see them shine again.

"Eren is alive. Levi is alive. _You _are ali—"

_"It doesn't matter!"_

Armin's sudden, angry outburst startles her. Her hands drop uselessly into her lap.

"None of that matters! Eren can't die because he's a titan, and Levi's good enough to take care of himself. You don't even exist as far as the government's concerned, and it doesn't matter what happens to me—"

"Armin!" Eren raises his voice.

"It _doesn't!" _Armin is facing him now, the look in his eyes matching the fire in his voice. "Not anymore! Not when there are other people at risk!"

Eren stares open-mouthed at Armin. There is a thin trail of tears lining his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Eren," Armin says quietly after a long silence. "But… This is how I feel now."

Eren doesn't say anything. He stares mutely at the floor and stays kneeled in front of Armin.

Gingerly, she reaches out to grab one of Armin's hands. They are fisted so tightly she has to pry his fingers open with both hands. When she is finally able to grasp his palm, she finds that it is cold and sweaty.

That's how they remain for a while— They sit on the wooden floor of a tiny, cramped room in a cheap apartment in a cheap neighborhood, holding onto each other to the best of their ability and slowly picking up the pieces that have shattered. This was how they spent their youth together, and for some reason she'd thought that those days had gone. But here they were again, crying and huddled close together like infants separated from their mother. They don't say anything to console each other because they know that words are empty and useless now; they drown in a darkness where hope is bleak and surreal at best, hope only lingering on because they see its promise in each other. It's usually Armin who brings that hope back; his good cheer, sunny smiles, and bright eyes do wonders for lighting up their darkness, so when it's Armin who suffers, they suffer all the more deeply.

Eren speaks again, the sound of calm acceptance coloring his voice, and it's to her.

"It was Marco who died."

The news makes a cold, dreadful shock pierce her to the core.

"We… We made a mistake. We didn't wait long enough, and… There was an explosion, and Armin was gonna… So I… And… And then Marco, he— he tried to stop it from going off, but we had the wrong code, and…"

Marco. _Marco_. Marco, the one who's always nagging them to take care of themselves, the one who can't tell good tea from bad, the one who lives with Jean and loves Jean and—

Oh.

_Oh_.

The shock that pierced her digs deeper into her heart.

Oh, Jean.

.

.

She knocks on a door of an apartment on Amsterdam Avenue on the upper west side. It is a quiet Wednesday evening, and there is no sound coming from the other side of the door. She stares at her feet and raises her hand to knock again.

The door rips open unexpectedly. She drops her hand and bravely lifts her face.

Jean stares her down through bleary eyes that are red and overflowing with tears.

She can't keep her eyes on his face, so she looks down. "Jean."

Jean exhales shakily, and it takes her a minute to register that it's because he's absolutely furious. She looks up and isn't surprised at what she sees. There is a dark look in his eyes that she's only seen directed at Eren before, and it sparks the instinct to strike him hard. She keeps it down by biting her tongue, by locking her fingers tightly behind her back, and by pressing her knees firmly together.

"You," Jean snarls, his voice dripping with hate, "You tell your people to stay away from my sister, to stay away from my brother, and to stay away from _me_."

The door slams in her face before she can utter an apology.

On a quiet, Wednesday evening, Mikasa Ackerman cries for the first time in six years in front of Jean Kirschstein's door.


End file.
